Too Little, Too Late
by silverwolf04
Summary: Whilst on a chase, Sherlock works something out moments too late. Slash.
1. A Moment Too Late

A/N: After the great response my last story got, I quickly decided to do another. I just wanted to say a huge thank you to **mustangwoman, The Red Fedora, LuffyMarra, Amelli-Kara **and** pocketwatchgirl. **Your fantastic reviews prompted me to write more, I hope you like the outcome. But the biggest thanks goes to **Scopesmonkey. **Without her support and encouragment I would never have published anything. I strongly suggest you read her Sherlock stories. They are epic.

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This is what he lived for. This is why he did what he did. This is what a normal life could never give him. The adrenaline, the thrill, the chase. Sherlock was pounding down Oxford street which was still teaming with people at ten pm. Honestly, thought Sherlock, didn't people have anything better to do than get in his way? Weaving in and out of pedestrians, the consulting detective never took his eyes off his target, Feliks Kotova.

Born November 5th 1962, Kotova joined the KGB in '82, drafted in from the Russian army at the age of twenty. He was good. Nine years with the Russian Committee for State Security had made him better. However, after the KGB was dissolved, Kotova turned rogue and was accepted by the Russian Mafia with open arms. Working his way up the criminal ranks, Kotova became the number one assassin for Don Semion Mogilevich by 2004. Interpol reckoned Kotova was the one to pull the trigger on roughly eighty percent of Russian Mafia arranged contract killings. He had twenty nine outstanding arrest warrants in fifteen different countries ranging from assault to murder.

Now he was in England and had murdered a young woman the Don had wanted out of the way and her two bodyguards. The police had been stumped and had called in Sherlock. The detective had tracked him down over thirty-six hours with no sleep (completely disregarding his doctor's advice of rest). This was one international assassin that Sherlock wasn't going to let escape. He hadn't forgotten about The Golem.

"You're still sore about that?" John had laughed the previous day. Sherlock frowned.

"You think it's funny that a giant assassin is still on the lose, and has probably killed countless people since we last saw him?" That had come out slightly more cutting than he had intended, but at least John had stopped laughing at him. The last person to laugh at the detective was Lestrade and he hadn't liked it then. The fact that it was John laughing was worse. Sherlock wasn't sure why.

"No, I'm not laughing at his freedom," John stood to walk up to where Sherlock was standing by the huge map of London, "I'm laughing at the fact you're taking his freedom as a personal insult."

John raised an eyebrow silently asking Sherlock to contradict him. After a moment John smirked a smirk that was worthy of the consulting detective himself before taking Sherlock's empty mug into the kitchen to refill with much needed coffee. Sherlock had seen the annoying, yet at the same time endearing, glint in the doctor's eye (an illogical contradiction but he could focus on that later). John had won and he knew it. Sherlock hoped he knew that he was the only one whom Sherlock ever let have the last word. He didn't know why, but he sensed it was important somehow.

Thought's of John catapulted Sherlock's mind back to the present and the other participant in the chase. Despite his shorter legs, John was surprisingly quick and light on his feet. He was flitting in, out and around various annoying people as they blocked his path and was approximately seven metres ahead of Sherlock and ten behind Kotova. And gaining.

As an assassin Kotova was used to the short sharp sprints that got him clear of his own crime scenes. However this was a hunt, a test of stamina and endurance, and John was younger, stronger and fitter than Kotova. You didn't have to be a genius to know who was going to win this race.

Then the Russian changed the rules.

He suddenly swerved around a crowd of Japanese tourists before turning right into a side alley. Sherlock had misjudged and possibly underestimated the man. He had assumed Kotova only had a limited knowledge of London and would carry on to the crowded areas and hope to get lost in the rest of the populace. It now seemed the assassin has a real destination in mind; Soho.

Admittedly the area was better than it had been even thirty years ago, but it was still one of the most notorious of places in London and if Kotova had any contacts in the UK, they'd be there. Sherlock couldn't allow that to happen. If he lost the Russian tonight, he would be out of the country by tomorrow morning and out of Sherlock's reach. That was not acceptable.

Sherlock increased his speed and soon caught up with John, who glanced at the genius before running faster himself. He'd obviously recognised Sherlock's expression and realised that Kotova was close escaping. That was something Sherlock truly appreciated about his friend. John was not an idiot and could read faces just as well as Sherlock. Sometimes even better.

They were now eight metres away from Kotova, but closing the gap was proving to be difficult. The Russian had found ducking in and out of various alleys an effective method of keeping the doctor and the detective behind him.

As his heart pounded in his chest and his lungs went into overdrive trying to supply his body with the oxygen he desperately needed to keep running, part of Sherlock's mind went over the facts again to see if he could anticipate Kotova's next move.

He'd arrived in London five days ago and stayed in a B&B in the East end for forty-eight hours. In that time he had gathered all the necessary information on his mark, Lidija Triron. Like Feliks Kotova, Triron had been ex-KGB turned gang member. However, when she tried to leave the mob, Mogilevich had ordered her husband to be killed. Before she could also be murdered, Triron had fled to Europe where she turned herself into Interpol and asked for amnesty in return for information on Mogilevich. The deal had been struck, and Triron had been moved to England for her own safety.

"That part of the plan didn't work out to well," John had remarked after Mycroft had delivered the information in person in return for Sherlock and John's help on the Andrew West case. Sherlock had to agree.

Kotova was tiring. While his speed remained the same, he'd stumbled several times and John had gained another metre. The assassin and the doctor turned another corner just as Sherlock's mind demanded his attention. Something about the crime scene.

Both Triron and her ineffective bodyguards had been shot though the head at point blank range, execution style, with a Grandpower K100, 9mm, semi-automatic from Slovakia. Hadn't been hard to deduce, Kotova had left the gun, his own unique calling card. But he'd taken the magazine. Why? Why take the the magazine and the bullets unless he could use them again with another...

Oh God

The realisation made Sherlock stop dead. Which was the worse possible thing to do, because not a microsecond later, the sound of a gun being fired ricocheted around the narrow labyrinth of interconnected alleys.

Adrenaline coursed though Sherlock's body so fast they he hadn't realised he'd moved until he was standing next to John. If his heart had been racing before, the sight of the doctor made his heart stop. John was on the ground, not moving, in a pool of his own blood. Oh, so not good.

Sherlock moved fast. Ripping his scarf from his neck, Sherlock balled it up and held it against John's abdomen where the bullet had gone in. Kotova had aimed to injure, not kill. He knew few could leave an injured comrade whilst some would leave a dead one to continue their pursuit. He'd played it safe so he could escape and on some level Sherlock registered this. But right at that moment he was more concerned with making sure the injury did do the killing for Kotova.

"John, John! Look at me! You are not allowed to die. Dying is boring, predictable and dull," Sherlock yelled at the doctor trying to keep him awake. He continued pressing on the wound to try and stem the blood loss with one hand. The other was busy phoning for an ambulance.

"Can bloody well die if I want to."

Sherlock was relieved to hear John talking and fairly coherent if not slightly slurred. Although precisely what the doctor had said was more than a little distressing.

"No you bloody well can't. There aren't any hero's remember, so stop trying to be one."

John smiled.

"Can't you even let me win when I'm dying-"

Sherlock scowled.

"You're not dying, so no. And I let you win all the time," Sherlock paused "you're the only one I ever let win."

He wondered if he'd gone to far. It sounded far too much like a last confession.

"Thank you."

Sherlock wasn't sure what John was thanking him for. Letting him win? But a moment later John's eyes closed and he stopped breathing and it didn't matter any more.

"John? John! Don't you dare."

As Sherlock started CPR, his brain worked at 100 mph, but for once all of it, all of his massive intellect was focused on the man in front of him. Because John was everything. His flatmate, colleague, friend and-? There should be something else but there wasn't, not yet. They didn't have the chance. And all of Sherlock's being suddenly wished, wanted and needed just one thing more than anything else in the whole of creation. He needed John to breathe. His brain repeated that one word in time to his compressions. Breathe, breathe, breathe.

But only one word was uttered just before Sherlock's mouth closed over John's.

"Please."

* * *

Disclaimer- These characters belong to ACD, Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. They are not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.

A/N- Please review. Please.


	2. Time Passing

Sherlock could never remember how long it took for the ambulance to arrive. The journey to the hospital was a blur. All he was certain of, was that John was breathing, he had a pulse and Sherlock wasn't going to let go any time soon. He'd later been told that the paramedic's had had to pry Sherlock away from the doctor's motionless body. Motionless but alive.

After about a minute of CPR Sherlock realised that he was no longer keeping pressure on the bullet wound. In fifteen seconds Sherlock managed to wrap the scarf around John's midriff so it would continue hindering the blood flow. Fifteen vital seconds before Sherlock could continue CPR. When John finally started breathing again Sherlock had thanked the God he didn't believe in before, cradling John in his arms, fingers at the weak and unsteady pulse point at the doctor's neck, it was the only assurance Sherlock had that John was still with him, barely.

When the ambulance finally arrived, the paramedics had put the both of them in and took them to the hospital. They managed to temporarily stabilize John, while Sherlock was apparently in shock (Sherlock scoffed at this at a later date. Sherlock Holmes did not go into shock, but John had that glint in his eye that said it all). It did explain why Sherlock couldn't properly judge the passing of time. Usually Sherlock registered everyone and everything around him. He may not acknowledge them but he noticed them, especially after the Jim fiasco. He always knew what the time was, he always knew where he was, what he was doing and who he was with. But that ambulance journey was a complete anomaly. He knew he was in an ambulance, but he had no idea which hospital they were headed to. As for the paramedics, he didn't even know how many there were. Sherlock had no idea of gender, colour or creed let alone the finer details that he alone could notice.

He could blame it on the shock. Except he wasn't really in shock. He wasn't replaying the shooting in his mind or exhibiting any other typical reactions like anxiety, impaired judgement, confusion, detachment, or depression. Okay so he might seem a little detached, but he always seemed like that to people who didn't know him. John knew that and never took offence to it unlike previous flatmates. In fact he had ignored Sherlock on occasion in return. Sherlock had found this more than a little irritating.

"_John will you please put down that book and pay attention!" Sherlock yelled at the unresponsive former soldier sprawled across the sofa, engrossed in 'The Da Vinci Code'. Finally realising Sherlock wanted his attention, John slowly began to turn his head towards the standing genius, but never moving his eyes until the last possible moment. He glanced at Sherlock who looked as if he was about to spontaneously explode. Or start shooting the wall again._

"_Sorry what was that?" John struggled not to add 'dear' onto the end. However, he was less successful at stopping the grin that lit up his face._

"_How you can possibly find that trash more entertaining then this case is beyond me. Now are you going to contribute or shall I just talk to Derek?" Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. John was being infuriating. John's brow furrowed in annoyance. He sat up to better talk some sense into the detective._

"_A, this is not trash. It is a fascinating insight into one of the most provocative conspiracy theories presented in the twenty-first century, and a hell of a lot more realistic than my life. And B," John breathed deeply then paused, "who's Derek?"_

_Sherlock turned his head to nod at the mantelpiece. John followed his gaze and settled on Sherlock's old friend, the skull. John turned back and looked confused. _

"_I thought he was Anton?"_

_Sherlock settled back down into his arm chair, slightly less riled now he had John's full attention._

"_Changed my mind. He's a Derek, although I'm starting to wonder if Alfred wouldn't suit him better. What to you think?"_

_John smirked before re-opening his book and lay back down on the sofa. _

"_Whatever you like," he really couldn't resist, "dear." Sherlock stomped off at that in what could only be described as a huff._

John never needed Sherlock's full attention. But he had it. In that ambulance John had every single ounce of Sherlock's considerable concentration. Everything else was irrelevant. No one and nothing was important as John. In that ambulance Sherlock's universe shifted and the centre of it was removed and replaced. The work was still important, definitely. But John was more so. Oh, he was so much more important.

So Sherlock blocked everything else out. The paramedics, whatever hospital they arrived at, the doctors. He seemed to be in a daze but Sherlock refused to acknowledge anyone but John. Eventually he had to let go of his-? Sherlock didn't quite know what John was to him any more. He just knew he was his. But he had to let them take John away to remove the bullet. It was necessary to John's survival, but Sherlock hated every single second of their separation. That time he could recall with excruciating detail. Each second lasted an hour. Each second was another in which John could slip away without Sherlock even knowing.

Finally the doctor walked out of the operating theatre and told Sherlock that John has made it through the operation without any complications. But he really didn't needed to. From the moment the doctor had walked Back through those doors, Sherlock had known from the man's smile. John was alive. John was okay. It was a good job Sherlock was already sitting down, because the relief made him weak at the knees.

"He's in recovery now. You can see him as soon as he comes out Mister Holmes. He should be fine."

Logically, Sherlock knew this was an experienced and highly qualified surgeon, but Sherlock only trusted one doctor, his doctor. He needed proof.

"I want to see him now," Sherlock said, with no outward sign of emotion. Inside he was a mess.

"I'm afraid I can't allow that Mister Holmes, besides Mister Watson won't be awake for another..."

"Doctor Watson actually. And I don't care. I need to see him," Sherlock interrupted before the idiot doctor could carry on wasting valuable oxygen. There must have been something in Sherlock's eyes because the doctor slowly nodded and showed him into John's room. Once again everything faded into the background and there was only John and the most beautiful sound in the world. The steady beep of a heart monitor. But machines could lie. Sherlock moved towards the bed drinking in the sight before him. It wasn't pretty.

John was pale, far too pale. The first thing Sherlock had ever deduced about John was that he was back from Afghanistan or Iraq, the big give away was the tan. John wasn't meant to be pale. But his chest was rising and falling. He was breathing. That wasn't pretty. It was beautiful. Yet Sherlock needed more. Finally, he reached the bed and, oh so gently, picked up John's hand and carefully placed his fingers over John's pulse point. The relief Sherlock felt at the feeling of the doctor's blood rushing confidently through his veins made him close his eyes at the exquisite sensation. Without breaking contact, Sherlock pulled the lone chair as close to John's bed as physically possible before settling down. For John, he would wait, because nothing else mattered.


	3. Waking Hours

The first time John woke up everything seemed white. That would be because everything was white. Hospital then, God he hated hospitals. Odd for a doctor, but no one had ever accused him of being normal. Except Sherlock of course, but everyone was normal compared to the world's only consulting detective.

Wait, he had been with Sherlock, going after someone. Why wasn't his brain working? Oh, Russian.

C something. Chekov. No that's vodka. K something. Korto, Korta, Kota, Koto, wait Kotova, the assassin. Some blokes in Afghanistan had bragged about meeting him. John smirked mentally, bet they'd never been shot by him. Oh God, he'd been shot. Again. He had been joking when he said hospitals were his version of hell. What about Sherlock, was he dead too? Please no. Sherlock couldn't be dead, he was important, in so many ways. Ways he'd never told him. Sherlock couldn't be...

Suddenly, some of the mist that had clouded John's mind seemed to clear. He could hear the heart monitor and he could feel the rough material of hospital issue blanket against his skin. His left side ached, even though it was numbed. There was an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose and a warm, gentle pressure on his left wrist. His head turned slowly, and his eyes focused on Sherlock.

"Thirty-nine minutes and forty-three seconds early," Sherlock quietly stated with a smile, "Ninty-nine and forty-three by Dr Cox's estimation."

John blinked in confusion, what the hell was Sherlock going on about? More importantly was he okay? John desperately wanted to take the mask off to ask these questions. Luckily, Sherlock was quite adept at mind reading and answered John's mental questions.

"Dr Cox said it would take about five hours for you to wake up. I estimated four. Just couldn't let me be right could you?" Sherlock smiled at him gently. John tried to smile back, but his face muscles weren't quite up to the challenge. Besides he wanted his second, more pressing question answered. He drew in a breath to make an attempt at forming the question when the pressure on his wrist increased ever so slightly for a second.

"I'm fine. Kotova ran straight after he shot you." John didn't have to see Sherlock's face to confirm his anger at the Russian's escape. There was ample evidence of it in his voice. John did, however, look down at his wrist to see Sherlock's hand holding it firmly as it was his only tether to the world. Maybe it was. John dimly remembered being held (and shouted at) by the man, moments after being shot by Kotova. He remembered thinking, _Not the worst way to go_.

Following John's gaze, Sherlock released John's wrist obviously thinking John would mind. For once the detective was very wrong. A small noise (whimper?) of displeasure left John's throat before he could catch it. But he was glad he didn't because a second later Sherlock's hand returned to its proper place around John's wrist.

The blackness was creeping back around the corners of John's eyes. He fought it though, he didn't want to go back to sleep. He wanted to stay with Sherlock.

The genius seemed to realise what was happening though and lent over to whisper in John's ear, touching temple to temple.

"It's okay, go back to sleep. I'll be here when you wake up."

With this reassurance in his mind and the feel of Sherlock's thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles into his wrist, John succumbed to unconsciousness, his last thought, _Not a bad way to fall asleep_.

* * *

The second time John woke, he found soon realised he and Sherlock were no longer alone. John couldn't help but feel slightly annoyed.

"Ah, Doctor Watson. You're awake." His doctor was a middle aged, balding man with a beer belly. He had a pompous, slightly patronising air about him. He and Sherlock must be getting along great, thought John sarcastically. Sherlock was looking at the doctor in question with a disapproving air whilst Doctor Cox (if John remembered correctly) was looking rather unhappy. Sherlock had probably told him his wife was cheating on him with her personal fitness coach or something like that. The icy glares exchanged between the two proved John right, even if the details weren't spot on. Oh yeah, this was going to be fun.

"Well you seem to be making a remarkable recovery, Doctor Watson. You will of course need to stay for in observations for another night or so and start your physiotherapy exercises as soon as possible. Other than that, well lets just say it could have been a lot worse..."

John felt the need to jump in before Sherlock throttled the man, who was after all, only doing his job.

"Yeah, I could be dead," John mentioned lightly, if a little horsely. Recognising this, Sherlock reached over John to grab a glass of water. He still hadn't let go of his wrist. John couldn't help thinking that if Sherlock ever did let go it would feel wrong, very wrong.

Doctor Cox bristled at John's glib comment.

"Yes. Well. Technically you were dead for a few moments. Your friend," it was John's turn to bristle at the way the doctor sneered at the word "friend", "saved your life performing CPR."

After making sure John's thirst was quenched, Sherlock turned to pin the doctor with his most condescending glare.

"Obviously," Sherlock sneered, in a way the doctor must have envied. This seemed to be all that the doctor could take and promptly turned and left the room.

While John had found the exchange highly amusing, he thought maybe they were being a little unfair on the doctor who had probably done a good job of putting back together.

"Sherlock, behave," John muttered reproachfully, but they both knew there was a smile on his face.

"He was being obnoxious," Sherlock justified. John raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"So you're the only one allowed to do that then?" John inquired

"Yes, I earn that right every time I catch a criminal," Sherlock replied righteously, a smile playing on his own lips now.

"But then you lose it by leaving the washing up for three days," John growled. It had happened two weeks ago. He'd left subtle hints that it was Sherlock's turn to do the washing up, before asking him outright to do it. No surprise that in the end John had done it.

"I was conducting an important experiment at the time."

"No you weren't." And he hadn't been. That's why John had asked that particular week. John wasn't idiot enough to expect Sherlock to leave an experiment to do something as mundane as the washing up. God forbid eyeballs should ever come second to dirty dishes.

"I was seeing how long I could leave the washing up before you cracked and did it for me. I was a little disappointed actually. You caved five hours before I thought you would, although to be fair I must admit the lasagne was starting to smell a bit..."

"Sherlock?" John interrupted the man's flow, eyes closed in irritated exasperation but the smile felt permanently glued to his lips. It felt good to be doing something as normal as arguing over whose job it was to do the washing up. Despite being confined to the bed with a big hole in his abdomen.

"Yes, John?"

"If I wasn't confined to this bed I'd hit you round the head right now." Somehow it didn't quite have the proper threatening effect with them both grinning like Cheshire cats.

"Good for me you're stuck in bed then." John shook his head.

"Doesn't mean I can't do it when we get home." Sherlock nodded thoughtfully in agreement

"True. But you won't." He said this with such confidence that John instantly knew he wouldn't be thumping the genius. But he still had to ask.

"And why's that?"

"I did the washing up we left the other morning when I went home a couple of hours ago." Sherlock uttered nonchalantly. John scowled but it didn't have any bite in it.

"That was only a couple of mugs," John moaned. Sherlock shrugged.

"It's the thought that counts."

"Obnoxious ass," John muttered under his breath, smiling again.

"Thank you," Sherlock nodded his head satisfied. John didn't bother pointing out it hadn't been a compliment. They sat and enjoyed a comfortable silence before John screwed up his face as if he'd just tasted something bitter.

"So... you've been home then?" John didn't know why the thought of Sherlock leaving made him uncomfortable. Perhaps because he promised to be there, well, promised to be there when he woke up, but still...

"The doctor told me you should be able to come home tomorrow. I knew you'd want some clothes. The ones you were wearing when you got shot had to be binned. I saw the mugs and I knew you'd want tea when you got home so..." Sherlock looked uncomfortable at confessing his thoughtfulness and refused to meet John's gaze. John stared at the man before him. Just when he thought he had him figured. John gently pulled his wrist away from Sherlock's hold, but before Sherlock's face could fall, betraying his disappointment, John's hand returned to hold Sherlock's, entwining their fingers until you couldn't tell where either man started or ended.


	4. Infinite Clarity

A/N- A big thank you to all who have reviewed this story. And a huge thank you to **ScopesMonkey**. Without her support and praise I never would have got through this chapter.

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Sherlock awoke with a gasp of terror that shuddered throughout his whole body with such ferocity, it made him sit up in shock. A cold sweat covered his body as his accelerated heartbeat and breathing struggled to carry him through the mental anguish his nightmare had caused him. He willed himself to stay still as the panic abated, but he knew it wouldn't leave. It wouldn't go until Sherlock could prove his nightmares wrong. Untangling his long limbs from the covers, Sherlock made his way out his bedroom door and through to the kitchen. He didn't turn on the light, the street lamp provided sufficient illumination. Besides, he could find his way through the flat blind.

It was a warm night in the middle of an unseasonably hot May. Yet Sherlock shivered. The flat felt empty and cold, foreboding like the calm before the storm. Standing in the middle of the living room Sherlock tried to pin-point what the cause of this sensation was, but nothing was coming to him. It was a feeling, an instinct on a basic level. But Sherlock didn't do feelings or basic, so there was no way of understanding and the remaining panic from his dream was clouding his mind until he was breathing so hard he had to wrap his arms around his bare chest to try and keep himself from falling apart. He needed help.

At that moment soft footfalls echoed around the room as someone descended quickly from the floor above. With each step, Sherlock's breathing eased but he didn't relax the hold he had on himself frightened that another panic attack would take over.

As the door opened Sherlock hid his face in his knees, having sunken to the floor in his haze of panic, to avoid looking at the light and hurting his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock."

* * *

John was woken at two by an awful moaning that seemed to echo through the house and into his mind. His sister had always been one for late night parties and after the first few, Harry had woken John whilst she was screaming at their parents. But he had soon learnt to sleep through the shouting and screaming. At university, John's mate had slept in the next room and his snores had been infamous for keeping the entire hall awake. After a few sleepless nights John managed to block out the racket and sleep without being disturbed. Afghanistan was never quiet but John had adapted. This noise, however... It seemed to crawl into his head and heart and shake them until the whole body awoke. It had been going on for a few weeks now and John still couldn't get used to it. Maybe because he didn't want to. How could he sleep whilst Sherlock was in pain?

John always knew when Sherlock was going to wake up. The moans got increasingly louder but before they could become shouts or screams they would cease and John would know Sherlock had awoken from another nightmare. Every fibre of John's being longed to go downstairs to the genius, but Sherlock was a man who valued space and privacy and John was did not want to intrude. But he knew he was needed. Just as he had done every night for the past three weeks, John waited until it hurt and then almost ran to his door and down the stairs, flicking on the light switch as he ran down the stairs but he slowly opened the door, knowing Sherlock was vulnerable and scared.

What he saw, was the most heart breaking thing he had ever seen in his life. Sherlock was curled in on himself by the foot of John's arm chair hiding his face from the light.

"Oh, Sherlock."

John walked over as fast as he could with his stomach injury still tender and crouched down in front of the detective. Since this had started, John had never found Sherlock in this kind of state.

They usually meet somewhere in the living room or kitchen and John would just be there for the detective. The first few nights they'd ended up sleeping on the sofa. By the fifth John was fed up of waking up with a crick in his neck. The next night John had manoeuvred Sherlock into his bed, just to sleep, of course. Because it seemed when Sherlock had company, the nightmares stayed away. John wasn't sure how he felt about this and wasn't in a hurry to analyse the situation because, in many ways, he liked it. Being in the same bed as Sherlock was... right. Plus Sherlock was a limpet. Honestly, several mornings John had woken up to find he couldn't move. Sherlock had the advantage of long limbs which his subconscious used to tangle with John in an intricate and complex manner yet always avoiding his wound. He didn't mind though, John it seemed was a closet cuddler. At least with Sherlock he was.

But he'd let the situation come to this. John had never felt so guilty and disgusted with himself. Just so he could have Sherlock, John had inadvertently hurt him. He should have made Sherlock talk about the nightmares. Keeping them quiet made them worse until it come to this. Well not any more. John touched Sherlock's shoulder lightly, wary that too much sudden contact could overwhelm the man.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me love?" the endearment left John's mouth before he could catch it. Not that it really mattered since, a second later, Sherlock looked at him.

"John?" Sherlock whispered as if saying it too loud would scare him away. John's already broken heart was crushed at the sight of what had happened to this great man. Yet to John he was still brilliant, still amazing, and still his.

"I'm here, I've got you," and John brought up his other hand to rest on Sherlock's head willing him to come closer, but never forcing. This had to be done at Sherlock's pace. This was about him.

Sherlock's own hand suddenly shot to grab John's. The doctor wondered if he'd gone too far and/or too fast until Sherlock grabbed his pulse point with almost bruising force.

This was something that had increased since they'd got back from the hospital. Personal space had always been a grey area for them. John reaching inside Sherlock's coat that he was wearing to get the genius' phone. Sherlock grabbing John's face to maximise his visual memory without John snapping the man's wrists instinctively. More often than not, they tended to share everything, from cups of tea to credit cards and PIN numbers and more recently, a bed (for half the night anyway). But any personal space was now non-existent between the men. The arm-chairs were barely used any more, they preferred to sit on the sofa together, legs entangled, as in bed. At the few crime scenes they been to since the shooting, they tended to orientate themselves around each other so there was never to much space. Normally just enough room for Sherlock to pace without John having to do so too. However, barely fifteen minutes went by without them touching somehow. Whilst working on a case, it was more subtle, brushing past each other while pacing. Standing together, arms touching just enough to be felt. Sherlock always needing John to pass him something or other. And Sherlock wasn't always the instigator. John always felt better with the detective nearer. At home everything was less guarded. Hands on shoulders, brushing of hands while passing mugs of shared tea, even hand holding during crap TV. It made updating his blog awkward and slow, typing one handed, but John always did it with a smile. But by far the most common was Sherlock holding John's wrist. Sometimes taking his pulse, sometimes just holding. This could happen anywhere. The flat, in a taxi, in the morgue. Even once at a crime scene. It had been a boring one, but John had insisted they go since Sherlock was being ridiculous refusing to work while John was out of commission, but driving them both crazy with boredom at the same time. But when they had gotten there Sherlock had gone paler than usual and reached blindly for John's wrist which he had let Sherlock take willingly, concern for the detective far outweighing the his concern about the chance of repercussions from Anderson or Donovan. The case had been open and shut, when Sherlock had gotten stuck in, his panic going as quickly as it had come. But looking back the victim had been Caucasian, male, mid-thirties and had been shot in the stomach. Then it suddenly occurred to John what Sherlock had been having nightmares about. But now was not the time to have that discussion.

"Sherlock, look at me, love," John cocked his head to meet Sherlock's gaze. The grip on his wrist hadn't lessened at all but John didn't care. Sherlock had been his tether once. It was time to return the favour. And if he had his way, they'd never let go again.

"Lets go to bed." Sherlock nodded slowly. John wasn't entirely sure Sherlock knew what he was agreeing to but the nod was a sign of trust. So John led the man up the stairs and into their bedroom. Sherlock almost fell into the bed, exhaustion catching up with him. The genius was used to managing on little to no sleep but John knew he was not used to the mental anguish that had accompanied the sleeplessness. John lay down carefully to avoid pulling any stitches and reached out an arm to draw the younger man closer. Sherlock shuffled as close as possible, laying half on top of the doctor, nose in the crick of his neck and succumbed to the land of nod. John lay awake a little longer, savouring the feel of Sherlock tucked against him. He knew there was a conversation to be had the next morning and it would be a life changing one. However, in that moment, John didn't care. Because he was wrapped up warm with the man he loved and sleep was suddenly very appealing.

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John woke to the feeling of being stared at and sunlight. Slowly opening his eyes he found Sherlock propped up on one elbow, whilst his other hand was resting against John's chest right above his heart, staring at the gentle up and down motion it was making with each of John's breaths. He had noticed John was awake, of course he had, he was Sherlock Holmes, but he wasn't breaking the silence and John didn't want to. Sherlock looked glorious. The sun fell on him, highlighting every perfect inch. In the sun, Sherlock's hair had a faint red shine that brought a little colour to the pale man. His skin seemed almost luminescent in the early morning light. John had never been so grateful and so annoyed at the same time. Sherlock didn't wear a shirt in bed as the days and nights got warmer. While John was enjoying the view, some of John was enjoying the view too much. Most mornings he could go into the bathroom and take care of it himself (something he's had to do increasingly since they'd started sharing a bed), but they really needed to talk.

"I had to stop for fifteen seconds." It took John a moment to realise Sherlock had spoken. He hadn't moved at all. Then it registered what Sherlock had said. John was suddenly very confused,

"Had to stop what for fifteen seconds?" Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes. John was suddenly very scared of losing him and raised his hand to cover Sherlock's. The one pressing against his heart. Sherlock's looked at John as if he was seeing something new, bright and beautiful. John was uncomfortably aware that he was none of these things. However, John sensed Sherlock was about to open up about his nightmares without any prompting. He needed to carry on.

"CPR," Sherlock closed his eyes, reliving the moment, "I had to stop for fifteen seconds to tie the scarf around your wound." Silent tears began to fall from behind closed eyelids. John reached up to cup Sherlock's face and wipe away the tears. Sherlock's eyes opened at the shock of having someone touch him so tenderly.

"Is that what you've been dreaming about?" John asked quietly. Sherlock nodded never letting John's hand leave his face.

"In those fifteen seconds, you die. I mean," Sherlock paused as he fought to keep his voice steady, "you were dead but in my dream I just know..." John needed to know. He could feel this was crucial.

"You knew what, Sherlock?" John said as softly as humanly possible. He held Sherlock's gaze. "You knew what. love?" Sherlock drew in a deep breath and turned his hand to entwine his fingers with John's.

"You weren't coming back. I'd lost you and no amount of CPR was going to bring you back. I would be alone. I don't want to be alone, John, I don't want to be without you. I need you because," Sherlock suddenly looked ten times more scared than he had last night. "I love you."

At that moment John couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to. And he didn't want to. More importantly, he didn't need to. Everything he'd wanted for so long was right in front of him and he took without a second thought.

Their first kiss wasn't slow or sweet. It was needy, desperate and completely perfect. Hands pulled bodies impossibly closer, space was intolerable. They'd been apart for too long. They almost lost each other. They could take their time later. Now they need reassurance that they were alive and together. There was only a short pause. Long enough for the world to stop turning and just enough time for two pieces click together as four words were uttered, "I love you, too."

John didn't need to take care of himself that morning. Sherlock was doing a much better job of it. He wasn't a genius for nothing.

**The End**

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A/N- Please read and review for possible sequel.


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